Terry woke to a loud banging on her front doorβa very loud banging. She slipped a bathrobe over her red nightie and slid the manuscript she had yet to let go of into a drawer as she crossed the apartment to find out what was going on. Through the peephole in the door Terry saw her assistant from the office, Roberta, flanked by two policemen.
"What's this?" she tried to ask when she pulled the door open, but the sounds that emanated from her lips more closely resembled the croaking of a frog than human speech.
"Dear God, honey! What's happened to you!" Roberta exclaimed, moving to Terry's side and placing one arm around her. "Come, sit, and tell us what happened," Roberta said as she pulled Terry in the direction of an overstuffed chair. After settling Terry safely in the chair, Roberta turned to the police officers, who had just finished checking the apartment for any signs that something untoward had occurred and said, "Thank you gentlemen. I don't think we'll need anything from you at this point. I can handle it from here." The policemen tipped their caps and left, closing the door behind them.
Having recovered somewhat, Terry found her voice and asked Roberta "Bertie, why were the police with you?"
"You hadn't been seen or heard from in two days Terry. We were afraid something bad had happened to you."
"Two days?" Terry repeated, realizing she must have slept for something on the order of forty-eight hours. Recollections of her night with the beautiful man poured back into her consciousness and the little red nightie began to feel like it was sizzling against her skin, under the bathrobe. "Go back to the office and tell them I am sick" Terry said.
"What if they want to know more? What do I tell them?" Roberta asked.
"Tell them anything you like. Tell them to go fuck themselves for all I care," Terry shot back, beginning to sound agitated. "I need to be alone now!"
Alone was the last thing Terry really wanted. The words "no measly mortal fuck will ever satisfy again" had begun to run through her mind and what she really wanted was a man. What she really wanted was to satisfy the sensations her nightie was causing by feeling the flesh of a human male against her body and by fucking a human cock until she came, proving that her very real dream of two nights ago was still just thatβa dream. She reached for her phone as the door closed behind Roberta.
An hour passed, then two, then three. Terry fought a physical battle with the little red nightie, pulling it off and throwing it aside when she felt she would start screaming if it didn't stop arousing her with its tingling, sizzling caresses, putting it back on when her core would go ice cold without it. She fought a mental battle with her need to believe she had merely had a vivid, erotic dream versus all the evidence that something more substantial had taken place. Her memories of the ocean of sweet tasting cum spewing into her mouth, of the beautiful man's magical tongue sliding up her legs then into her pussy to morph into a gigantic prick that plunged in and out of her until she nearly swooned with the power of her orgasms defied her attempts to relegate them to the status of wild imaginings. By the time Martin knocked on Terry's door, expecting another tryst of the comfortable, highly erotic variety he and she had shared many times before, Terry's state of agitation resembled insanity. She had convinced herself that poor Martin's tool was the magic wand that would make all be well with her world.